My leg itches at night.

My fingers sprout nails
To probe beneath

Down to lower

Gurgling in high-chair,

Bashing a plastic spoon,

She displays her two teeth

When she

Probing, scraping, scratching,
Each delicate twitch
A scything sweep.

Clattering mirror,

I
Whenever sleep is required, But resisted,
The baby is bundled
And pushed

These birds choose to live in rarefied air,
Where all around them mountain peaks
Can be

(What the artist told me)

She paints like an otter swims:
Instinct, bold and lithe, guides

(For Chris Booth)

A pressed down
Heat exhausted stagger
Through furnace-fierce oppression.

Normally he sleeps,
Under my desk,
Or in the wardrobe,
Or under the kitchen table.

There are

Spring burned in that fire
Behind the evening trees.

All day it bled the ice
Back into lake and

My eyes along the tree line fall,
It is no idle pastime though;
No pleasant thoughts do I

Burdened eternally with living
In a myth,
He pulls behind his thin
And bent body

A huge

Playful stones thrown
By small children
Bounce harmlessly
Off our backs.

Now bullets

Wheeled wailing down white
Walled corridors with neon
Strip lights and antiseptic smells

The

She throws the cup
From the high chair
Again and again,

For the thrill of the noise,
And

She's squeezed between
Lap and table
While I peel fruit.

Eating it myself
Would provoke
A

There are thoughts that make you tremble,
Thoughts that you can't say,
Thoughts that never leave

After the darkness, struggling to make sense
Of what has gone and what is yet to be;
That feeling

I walked alone that day
In shadow
Cast by mountains.

Where a solitary tree
Stooped to greet
A

Hidden corners open
Through a swinging gate
For bobbing pigtails,
Running around berried

I glimpse a graphite sea
Smudging a sky
Laden with menace.

I have sought escape
From my

Bright and warm
Rioja
Marisco y mixta
Streets crowded with noise,
Women who stare back,
My

I. Loch Lubnaig

I saw it coming.
First the wave it made along the surface
I saw it

I saw it coming.
First the wave it made along the surface
I saw it running
Along the water of

Deer are being culled,
Their bodies piled on heather,
Dumped on one another.
A new born fawn

Normally he sleeps,
Under my desk,
Or in the wardrobe,
Or under the kitchen table.

There are

It's getting harder to remember

what I was like

before I was damaged;

before you tore me